


Eidetic

by Oienel



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Certain Disability, F/M, eidetic memory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2018-10-12 03:09:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oienel/pseuds/Oienel
Summary: Have you ever wondered how it feels to be able to remember every detail of a scene having seen it only for a brief moment? How it feels to be able to see the picture in your mind as clear as if you were staring at it in this exact moment?How it feels to walk into your bathroom, not needing to turn on the lights, because you know exactly where is every, even the least important, thing, like that hair pin that has fallen from the sink yesterday and you were too lazy to pick it up.I can do that. Everything I see is burned into my memory, and I don’t need mnemonic enhancers to recall every word on the page I read in the junior high while waiting for my appointment at the dentists’.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's a little bit different from my usual, but I like it.  
> In the original post, I used Jongdae's English name.

Have you ever wondered how it feels to be able to remember every detail of a scene having seen it only for a brief moment? How it feels to be able to see the picture in your mind as clear as if you were staring at it in this exact moment?

How it feels to walk into your bathroom, not needing to turn on the lights, because you know exactly where is every, even the least important, thing, like that hair pin that has fallen from the sink yesterday and you were too lazy to pick it up.

I can do that. Everything I see is burned into my memory, and I don’t need mnemonic enhancers to recall every word on the page I read in the junior high while waiting for my appointment at the dentists’.

And yet.

The cold water hits my face and even if the liquid is freezing, the sensation burns. I’m bent over the sink, as not to allow the water to drip on the floor. The bathroom is dark, but I know that on my left there is a towel, I threw on the heater yesterday. One corner is folded under, and it will probably be still dump, but just like yesterday, I can’t bring myself to care. Fingers find the soft material and I hide my face in it, delicately drying my skin.

Towel goes back to its place on the heater, and I raise my hand to turn on the light. I don’t search blindly, room maybe dark, but I know exactly where the switch is.

And yet.

The light is on and I stare at an unfamiliar face. It stares back at me and her eyes follows as I scan the flesh in front of me. As I stare at my own face. Hair, eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, skin imperfections, I see them, I think I know them.

But the moment I look down there is no face in my memory. There is nothing. Even if I know the color of my eyes, the color of my hair, even if I am sure that I have a beauty mark on my face – I cannot see it in my mind.

I grab the foundation brush and the bb cream, and look up. In a split of a second my brain connects the dots and tells me that it’s my face I’m staring at, but it’s just as unfamiliar as if I was seeing it for the first time in my life.

Putting on make-up has always had a slightly different meaning for me. I follow the lines of my face hungrily, intently, trying to commit the structure in my memory in hopes that one day I will remember it.

Years fly, and the moment has yet to come.

The last swipe of mascara and I’m ready to go. Walking out of the bathroom is a freeing moment. I’m no longer stressing over, constantly seeing the face I don’t know, the face that to me is as foreign as every stranger on the street. The moment I step out of this small room, I’m back to my eidetic-memory self. I can close my eyes and walk my apartment knowing that I won’t struggle. Everything I own is there, in my mind.

My room is a mess. Bed with the covers thrown askew, floor around it covered in clothes, slanting ceiling making it a dangerous place to put the bed. But when the one sleeping here literally cannot forget about the slope over her head, it doesn’t matter.

Everything in this room is wooden. Old wooden frame for my bed, wooden panels on the floor and sloped ceiling, tattered wooden wardrobe next to the doors, and big table serving me as a desk. And the pine lyre easel takes the center place in my room.

There is a unfinished painting standing on it: the girl sitting on a window sill, detailed city behind her. Her delicate frame is covered with white silk, and she has a long, swan-like neck, and she is turned lightly to the window, clearly looking out at the city.

The only thing she lacks is her face.

I don’t even look up at the painting, not wanting to dwell on the fact, that in the corner of my room there is a stack of similar paintings. I can paint, or sketch, nearly everything, hyper realistic landscapes my forte. But my portraits, every single one, emerges faceless.

I pack my bag hastily and my eyes fall on the sketch laying on the desk, next to the hand mirror. This portrait has face and only the fact that I clearly remember sketching this tells me that the woman on the page is me. It’s my face.

I don’t know if I’m  pretty or not. It’s not like I can compare.

My face is lost in my mind as soon as I look away from my work. I don’t dwell on that, I’ve learned to live without knowing how I look like.

I ride a bus looking out the window at the city. I know it like a back of my hand. I’ve drawn this route so many times, but looking at the things I know, the buildings I recognize, the streets I will remember is safer than looking at the faces of other commuters knowing that as soon as I look away their faces are wiped out from my memory.

It’s not just my face I can’t remember.

There is no face I can engrave in my memory.

At some point my mind discovered that saving everything is too straining on the brain. Remembering everything is a burden. So it decided to discard some memories, to put some of the views I see on the fast track to dump.

I still wonder why my consciousness have chosen the faces as a things I don’t need to remember.

Why do I choose to work in services? I don’t know. Why do I choose to work with people every day? I don’t know.

The nozzle is humming pleasantly as I hold the metal pitcher in my hand, fingers of my other hand on its bottom as I control the temperature of milk. I turn off the stream and swirl the liquid around, grabbing the cup with double espresso and I tip the vessel to pour the milk in. I watch how the white substance appears from under the dark coffee. The slightly bitter aroma, with a hint of a hazelnut invades my nostrils. Four quick, sure swipes of the stick on the surface and I’m staring at the perfect flower.

I put the cup on the saucer and turn around with it.

“Double cappuccino!” My voice is raised, but it pleasantly rolls over the venue. And older man comes to retrieve his order and he smiles at me warmly. I smile back, and give him his coffee. The moment he furrows his eyebrows slightly, I know.

He is one of the regulars. He is probably waiting for a service which he always gets, but I don’t know which regular he is. I don’t even recognize his face.

I smile at him and move my hand to grab the pincers and the muscles on his face relax.

Bingo.

I give him additional biscuit and relieved go back to the orders. I don’t need to check them, I just remember.

But it would be easier if I remembered the faces of our customers.

Somebody is calling my name, and I look up from a coffee maker, tamper stilling in my hand. The person calling me has an uniform, just like me, but his cuffs are golden not black.

Right. Manager.

He only wants coffee, so I quickly put on the espressos for 3 lattes and I turn on the grinder for his coffee. When I know for whom I am making coffee it’s easy. But when one of colleagues asks for coffee and I don’t get to see their nametag… It can get quite sketchy.

Later I am put on the cash register. It’s easy, working its keyboard without having to look at the buttons, or knowing that I don’t have enough coins for a change without opening it. It makes it easier while working with the customers, but I don’t like working the register.

Because when the problem with the order comes around – I just can’t help, because I can’t even tell if I really had this person at register.

Of course, it’s not like I don’t remember the encounters. I can tell exactly how many people I have served, how much they paid, what they ordered – but connecting the face to the order is just impossible.

I can even remember every joke they told me, I can recall the whole conversation, I can recognize the voice.

But face is always out of my reach.

This time I’m not forced into one of those embarrassing situations where I need to writhe trying to cover the fact that I have no idea whose order has yet to leave the bar.

Arriving home is always the most comforting part. Here I’m not stressed that I will meet somebody that I should know.

[Which happens quite frequently. Most of my classmates are sure that I hate them and I pretend not to see them when we see each other on the street. Which is only half true – I just don’t see them. I don’t even know how they look.]

There is something wrong with my place. I eye my hall, wary in my movements, as I put my bag on the floor. There is a phone left on the counter. I relax.

“Mom!” I call out, taking off the shoes. The voice that answers me is familiar, but the head that sticks out of the kitchen is not. I don’t let myself show how disturbed I am by this and I go in for a hug. She knows of my condition, of course she knows. And I know it breaks her heart – that’s why she always makes sure to leave me a sign that she came.

For me to call her first, as if I recognized her.

I stare at her as she starts talking. She talks quickly and a lot, and I relish her voice, knowing that the sound I will remember. I scan her face, and I don’t sigh, even if I want to.

Why I can’t remember her features?

Knowing that we resemble each other helps, but not much. As long as I don’t know how I look, or how she looks, I won’t be able to use that.

Not remembering faces has it’s perks. I used to have nightmares night after night, but now they don’t come. Brain cannot put together a face that it hasn’t seen already. And my brain practically hasn’t seen any face, so it cannot use them to haunt me.

But even with that knowledge I stand in front of my easel to the wee hours of the night, painting another faceless person.

*

Sometimes I wake up and I can feel that something is not right. Not in its place, not where it should be. For a person with my memory it’s a horrible feeling. I get out of bed with a jolt, and I scan my surroundings as an alerted animal. My mind supplies the images from the day before, from the last time I looked at this place, and I play the game known to every child in this world. Every time I play “find the difference in those pictures”.

Usually it’s a small thing. Stupid thing. A thing no one would notice, or pay attention to. Like brush I haven’t set up straight so it rolled over in the middle of the night. The paper that has fallen on the floor. The leaf that landed on the slanted window.

It’s a ridiculous thing, but I’m not capable of stopping it, I cannot just tell myself that everything is ok. I need to find what doesn’t belong.

Even if I know that is definitely an obsessive behavior.

And today is no different. From the moment I open my eyes, laying on the side, facing the room, I know something is wrong. Something changed.

So maybe I have drunk yesterday. I do that. Everybody does. We all want to forget sometimes. We all want to cede the responsibility, we all want to be able to do anything and later say: “it wasn’t me, it was the alcohol”.

But in the end the problem is still there. And it is never alcohol. It’s always you being finally bold enough to do what has been on your mind.

The empty bottle of wine is just as I left it. Laying between three legs of the easel. Drops of red wine are still staining the heap of portraits, faceless, never meant to be finished. Brushes are soaking in the gray water and I groan internally: I shouldn’t have left them like that.

But there is nothing surprising in that. After all I wanted to cede the responsible mind for this night – and my irresponsibility manifested with those brushes.

Sigh that escapes my throat is weary. Out of the every possible irresponsible things I’ve chosen to perform the most useless one. I stand up, my insides protesting immediately. The hangover after red wine is always the worst, but I insist on drinking it.

Because it makes me seem more like an artist.

Which is a stupid reason, but it is what it is.

My stomach revolts as I stand up, and my throat begs for a gulp of water. Even the grey liquid in the cup with brushes is tempting. Bending over is a heroic act, but I manage, even if I feel like dying.

The cup is still tempting, but I am sober enough to know better. I straighten and my eyes fall on the easel.

The cup shatters on the floor and the cold liquid splatters around, wetting my feet and staining my works. The brushes clatter and roll on the wood, but I am seemingly obvious, as I stare at the painting I was working on the last night.

It shouldn’t be surprising, or anything special. Detailed background, looking like a coffee place, not mine, but one of the million similar places, and the blank space in the middle, left for a person to sit there, blank space never meant to be filled in.

But the white surface is breached, features unknown, non-existing, but there is a change.

The lines of body are marked with brusque lines, which is not unusual for me. I can follow the lines of the shoulders, the neck, the rough contour of the head. That is normal, that is ordinary.

But the soft contour of the mouth is not. What is more surprising is the fact, that my brain didn’t hesitate to tell me that is not my mouth. I know that my mouth isn’t smirking like that, even if I don’t know how it looks.

But to check I walk to the table, where the hand mirror is laying, waiting for next time I decide to sketch an auto-portrait. I don’t care that I step on broken ceramic.

Hand is shaking as I stand in front of my easel and I lift the mirror to my face. I need to put it directly next to the contour of the mouth, so I can see both pictures in the same time.

Reflection tells me what my mind seemed to know. Those are not my lips.

Those are not my lips.

It’s a discovery that shakes the core of my being.

How could I draw something that for me cannot exist? And looking this real? Why have I done this? How have I done this?

Is it my brain telling me that it knows more than it lets slip?

I can’t bring myself to care about the mess left in the center of my room. I cannot bring myself to care about my hangover body, dried throat, growling stomach. I just grab the canvas and the sketchbook and I tuck myself back in the bed.

I sketch the contour of those mouth over and over again. There is no detail for me to grab on, but I drag the pencil across the page, with unusual determination for me. I draw it again and again, hoping that if my mind forgets, my body will remember how to draw it.

It takes over my mind. Even after I decide to get up and clean my floor, I still can see the moves I need to do to put the mouth on the page. I see myself sketching it over and over again, even when I’m eating. While taking shower, my finger traces it on the steamed over glass.

Nail engraves it onto the jeans as I ride a bus to work.

I don’t draw it on the coffee.

One needs to set boundaries.

Actually making coffee is so mechanic, that it takes my mind of those lips. But not before I notice how ridiculous it is. I obsess over lips I painted while being drunk, as if I was a teen girl obsessing over the lips of the boy I fell for.

Grinder, tamper, putting on espresso, warming up milk, pouring the milk, last touches. It’s easy, comforting, all the things I know how to do, and how to do quickly and efficiently.

Familiar, yet not this popular order comes in. I grab the tall glass and pour chocolate to the one fifth of its height. Ice and milk follows and I put on espresso. I clean the counter as I wait for the coffee. Just as I see the last dark drop falling I put the scoop of chocolate ice cream in the glass and I pour the double espresso on top. Whipped cream and the heart shaped waffle follows.

“Chocolate Ice Latte!” I call out and I look around the venue, inwardly content seeing how most of the tables are taken. I see a young man standing up and he smiles at me as he walks in my direction. I smile back and get ready to hand him the order, but he walks past me and disappears in the toilet.

I look after him, dumbfounded until I hear somebody clearing their throat. I look back and at the counter stands another young man, but this one is frowning. The skin around his eyes wrinkles and I feel the need to draw it, but I know, that there is no point in trying to remember.

I won’t.

I smile at him and give him his order. He takes it warily, and I feel the anxiousness spiking up. Is he a regular?

“Would you like a spoon or a straw?” I ask hoping, that he would tell if he wants something more, like another topping on his coffee.

“Both please.” He answers and I smile, as I hand him both. His voice is familiar, but not popping in my mind, so I decide that he has been here before, but not often enough to be a regular client.

He finally smiles at me, and his lips pull up, corners of his mouth turning up.

This time there is nothing in my hands to let go off and to destroy on the floor.

But my heart stills as my mind recognizes the lips from my painting.

I freeze unable to process this fact. How could I see those lips and store it in my mind. How did that happen?

I notice he is still standing at the counter and he is looking at me, uncertain.

I pull myself together, even if I keep screaming, confused, in my mind. I’m still at work, and my internal struggle cannot take over

I summon smile back on my lips.

“Please, enjoy.” His own smile grows wider, but he is still standing in the same spot, clutching his order in his hand. Literally clutching, I can see his fingers tensing on the cup.

I try to look discretely at my colleague, subconsciously looking for help. I am disturbed and I would rather get back to preparing coffee than stand here, not really knowing what this customer is up to.

Humming sound reaches my ears, as if he wants to speak up, but doesn’t know what to say.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where the restroom is?” He finally asks, and even if I’m not sure, I think I can see a hint of irritation in his eyes.

Where does it come from?

“Over there.” I answer, nonetheless, my hand coming up to point the right direction. I wonder whether he hasn’t seen me looking at the guy entering the restroom no more than a minute ago.

The customer throws me a soft “thank you”, smile disappearing, and walks back to his seat. Tension in his shoulders is palpable and I don’t understand that. But as I finally turn around to the coffee machine, I can feel my own anxiety lifting. I can still hear my internal screaming, turmoil still clawing at my insides, but I’m no longer under scrutiny of this man.

I allow myself to emit the loud shriek, that has been pooling in my stomach for hours, the moment the doors to my apartment fall shut.

How? Why? What _happened?_

I have seen his lips, my mind remembered them, my brain recognized them. My brain recognized those lips like it never recognizes my own face. I know that I look at my own face, just because I know how reflection works. My brains needs a second to connect the dots: I’m standing in front of a mirror, therefore the face looking at me is mine.

And yet, without any hesitation, my brain told me that I’m looking at the mouth from my painting.

And why I can remember his mouth, when the rest of his face doesn’t exist in my memory. Why mouth? What’s so special about it. What was so striking that my mind decided to store them in my memory?

And the final question: why his? Why this nameless, faceless customer?

I leave my bag on the hall’s floor, shoes thrown askew, jacket not catching on the hook I throw it onto. I stumble into my room, moves drunk-like, and I reach my bed, still unmade. My sketchbook is still on the covers, canvas are leaning on the wall. Once again I look at the painted lips, and I climb onto the mattress and sit cross-legged in front of the canvas.

It amazes me. The fact that my subconscious associated his lips with a coffee shop and made me place him in such environment on my painting. I trace the shape of his mouth with my finger. I stay like this longer than I’m willing to admit.

I don’t feel calmed, so I take the sketchbook and pencil, and nestle myself in my bed, still in my clothes. I draw those lips, perplexed by the fact I can sketch them, without looking at them. I can draw this mouth from my memory.

And that is the most gratifying thing that happened to me in years.

I can draw it smiling and not, open and not. And every time my brain knows them.

*

I wake up with the weight of the canvas on my legs, pencil under my cheek, and the sketchbook laying on the floor. This time I quickly find what has changed from the last time I saw this room, so I can get up with peace of mind. I was sleeping in my clothes, so I start my day off with a shower.

Cleaning my face after sleeping with make up on is punishing. I can’t really tell the difference in my skin when I look at the mirror, but I can feel how tired it feels. And puffed. But how it varies from my usual skin condition? I don’t know.

I don’t even have enough time to let my face rest, as I need to get ready for work. That’s life, and that’s what I get for abandoning my duties the night before. Hobbies can be dangerous.

I put on the make-up and the tired look disappears from my face. It doesn’t matter, really, as I forget how I look the moment I look down to find my mascara in my vanity case.

Certain things in life are constant, and my constant is not knowing my own face.

I eat breakfast, looking through some catalogue. I decide I need to go clothes shopping, I need something fresh in my wardrobe. And maybe another black top? I never have enough black tops.

In my room I see canvas laying on my bed. It’s no surprise, I left it there yesterday, and it was there when I woke up. I decide that today is a day for me to make my bed. Responsible adult should at least once in a while make their bed.

I grab the canvas, not yet sure where to put them, and I look once again at the painting.

And once again, as yesterday, I freeze. Yesterday I froze, because I saw the mouth. And I recognized them, I could see them in my mind. I remember that. I remember my whole day, whole yesterday revolving around those lips.

And I don’t remember them anymore.

Just like with my face in the mirror, my mind needed to make a connection: I see the coffee shop interior, I see the canvas I was working on two nights ago, so the mouth I see belongs to the guy I made Chocolate Ice Latte for.

Panic seeps through me, and I look away, willing my brain to remember those lips, begging myself to find them in my memory.

But just as if yesterday didn’t happen, my mind is blank. Nothing resurfaces when I ask for mouth, there is nothing left in the ‘lips’ tag.

Furious I throw the canvas across the room, they clatter with others as they hit the stack of my works. I already miss the feeling of being able to remember. I remembered one day. One _fucking_ day I was able to remember lips of some random guy.

The regret and longing crashes through my heart and I want to cry, to scream, to trash everything around me, I need to transform my pain into something physical, palpable. I want to wreck this room, I want to wreck the apartment, I want to destroy everything that falls into my hands.

I grab the sketchbook ready to rip it apart, but I don’t follow through. What will the wreckage bring me? A lot of cleaning, probably, and the need to replace destroyed items, meaning money.

There is no logical reason for me to do that.

I sigh, the depression pooling in my solar plexus. It’s my fault to be so elated about those lips. I brought that upon me, and now I need to deal with consequences.

It’s not a day in which my bed will be made.

*

As a cherry on top of my horrible day, I’m put at the cash register. I plead, but no one wants to listen, I beg, but the coffee maker is out of my reach for today.

I’m left with a bright smile and countless, faceless customers. Work is easy, maybe my misery is keeping me from committing any mistakes? That would be the only blessing I get today.

I smile at the next customer and ask for their order.

“One Chocolate Ice Latte, and maybe something sweet on the side?” I recognize the voice, drink serving me as a hint. I look up from the register and glance at the man’s face. I don’t recognize it. I don’t recognize his lips either. But I’m certain that this is the owner of the lips I drew.

“Chocolate Ice Latte.” I confirm, putting it into the register. “As for something sweet at the side would you prefer sundae or a cake?”

He looks thoughtful, but I have a distant feeling that he is happy. I have no idea, how I can tell that, but I am sure of it.

“Since there is ice cream in my latte, I think I’ll go for a cake. What’s your favorite?”

I like questions like that. Not what I recommend, but what I like.

“My personal favorite is vanilla meringue with mascarpone cheese and cranberries as a filling. But it’s really sweet, cranberries are not really breaking the sweetness.”

“Sweet. That’s how I like my desserts. “ He says with a disarming smile and I feel how my face relaxes into real smile. “I’ll take that.”

I summarize the order and check him up. Actually that was the only meaningful customer I had all day.

As we start cleaning the counter to prepare for closing time some customer approaches the cash register. I sigh internally, because new order would mean that we cannot start cleaning the coffee maker, yet.

But, nonetheless, I put on a bright smile and approach the customer. His clothes ring a bell, but it’s too faint to distinguish where it comes from.

“Excuse me, “ he starts, quite shy. The voice I recognize, and my smile becomes a notch more relaxed.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Oh, actually I have a personal favor to ask. I know it might sound weird, but please do not take it the wrong way, it’s just that would mean a lot to me if…” His pace raises with every spoken word, and I see that he is lost and babbling. I am weirded out, but he was nice to me, so I try to calm him down.

“It’s ok, just say it.” He takes a deep breath and I try to smile pleasantly at him.

“I work as a producer, and it’s not a big thing, but I’d like to ask you to lend me your voice.” He says quickly.

“My voice?”

“Yes, your voice. It’s gorgeous, and I come here regularly just to hear it. “ He says, shuffling on his feet.

“Wow, that’s nice to hear.” I say, not really knowing what to say. It’s an unusual compliment.

“It would be nice to hear it with a right accompaniment.” He chips in, and is it a joking tones I hear? I only smile, appreciating it, but not really sure.

“I need to think about it.” I tell him in the end. “ And excuse me, but I am at work, and I need to go back to cleaning.”

“Yes, right, of course. Take your time. I’m sorry for taking your time. “

“It’s ok.” I say, seeing how my colleague sends me a pointed look. I try to ignore her, and focus back on the customer.

“I will come back.” He says and I laugh.

“That sounded like a threat.” He matches my laugh, his hands disappearing in his pockets.

“Maybe it was a threat. Anyway, see you around?” He says, and I nod in answer. He starts walking away, and I watch him for a second, and then just go back to cleaning. It’s a safe time for me to clean the coffeemaker, so I go for detergent.

Once again his voice stops me in my tracks. This time I’m mildly irritated, but I go to the cash register.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you again, but I think I should at least introduce myself.” He says with a smile so disarming, that I can’t help but answer with a smile. He reaches the hand over the counter, and even though it’s not right (savoir-vivre says that woman should be the one to extend their hand – to give her an option not to touch the man if she doesn’t want to) I take it. “I’m Jongdae.”


	2. Chapter 2

Once again I am facing the portrait. I know it’s not exactly a portrait but I can’t lie – I am obsessed. Why him. Why this particular man out of thousands of customers. And why don’t I remember it anymore?

I put the canvas back on the easel I grab my sketchbook and my coal. I rarely use coal, it stains the fingers and it can easily stain the paper if one is not careful enough. I am not. I don’t fucking care about the paper. As I flip the pages to find an empty one, all I can see are lips. I have filled pages of this sketchbook with lips.

I sketch them. The lips. I don’t remember them. _I don’t remember them_. But my hand does. If I don’t think. If I don’t try to remember. If I just don’t _try_ , I can still draw them. From _memory_. Because it is _from memory_. Muscle memory is _still_ a memory.

Right?

*

I wake up on the floor. I am cold and stiff, and I really need to get myself together. I don’t groan when I start to move but I know a hearty groan would quite accurately summarize my current status. My knee hurts when I put my weight on it but I don’t have right to complain. It’s my own stupidity that led to this.

In the bathroom, I see that my face has a new marking. A long dark line of coal. Such a lovely decoration.

I get myself ready and I eat a quick breakfast. I walk back to my room to grab last few things and I stop for a second to once more look at the easel. I don’t remember them. I don’t remember the lips.

In a sudden outburst of rage, I grab the mirror from the desk and I throw it at the canvas. The easel falls to the ground, canvas land just next to it, unscathed. The mirror though shatters. Seven years of bad luck for me.

It doesn’t give me solace, so I storm back to the easel, I grab my sketchbook and with my bag furiously hitting my hip I nearly run out of my apartment, throwing the sketchbook onto a pile of trash under the lamp just outside my building.

This. Finally. Gives me solace.

*

I am making Chocolate Ice Latte. This mere order is enough to have me fuming. But I do it, I finish it, and I turn around to face the shop. It’s raining. It started raining about an hour into your shift. At first, it meant a wave of customers all wanting to take a shelter, but it has already calmed down. It’s quiet, and there is hardly anyone on the streets. I don’t understand how can anyone take their drink iced in such weather.

“Chocolate Ice Latte,” I call into the air, fully expecting to see a young man react. I am ready for him and his damned mouth. The person who comes for the order is this sweet little girl, barely reaching over the counter. I smile and carefully hand her the drink. I could wonder _why_ is she allowed to drink coffee, but I am not the parent. I can only watch as she goes happily back to her mother that looks over her so tenderly.

There is a soft snort to my right and I glance over. One of my numerous female coworkers is resting against a cash machine. I catch her name-tag. _Mina_. Ok, here I go, _Mina_.

“What?” I ask. Mina laughs this time openly.

“Girl,” she says purring the _r_ as if it was at least three syllables long. “It ain’t _your_ Chocolate Ice Latte.”

“What?” I repeat, this time confused even more. She winks at me and it doesn’t help.

“ _Your_ cookie is under that window. Today drinking cappuccino,” I look over to the window she pointed with a harsh jab of her chin. Sure enough, there is a young man sitting with a cappuccino cup in front of him and a book in soft cover. “I bet he didn’t read a page out of that book this whole time. He’s been busy appreciating your ass.”

I look away, suddenly embarrassed. I am not good with people. I am not good at having conversations like that. But Mina seems to not be disturbed by that fact.

“Go on,” she says. I can hear her excitement. Oh, right. Mina is one of _those people._ People who like to lie their life through other people. I am not being cynical. There are just people like that, just like there are people that like to stay out of the spotlight, just like there are people that were born to be a star. “Talk to him! Nothing is happening anyway.”

I know exactly who I am.

Then why, _why_ , I ask myself as I walk between the tables to the man. Jongdae. That’s his name if Mina is right and if we both think about the same person.

I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know what I am doing, really.

The man sees me when I am two tables away and he straightens in his chair so fast that it could come across as comic relief.

Which it is.

“Hi,” he greets me, one corner of his mouth jumping slightly. But not as if he was controlling it. More like he was trying to stop it. I recognize the voice – it is Jongdae.

I look down – it’s partially embarrassment. But more of it is my sudden realization that I can’t just stare at his lips. As I look at my not cleanest ballerinas I realize once again that _I don’t remember_.

“Can I sit here?” I ask looking up. Is he handsome? I see his face, but I can’t seem to read it.

Which is weird because I want to. Just as I never want to, this time I would really love to _read_ his face.

“Oh, yes, sure!” He answers pointing to the chair in front of him. I smile and for a second his face ceases to exist in my world. I slide down onto the chair, looking around as if I wanted to check if it’s really ok to sit down.

I do and the world doesn’t stop, so I look up.

Jongdae is smiling at me and I answer with a shy smile. Is he handsome? Are his features hard? Are they soft? How do you describe his jaw, his nose? Are those high cheekbones?

I don’t know, I have nothing to compare him to.

“I see you didn’t order Chocolate Ice Latte today?” I say because it’s a first thing that comes to my head. His smile grows and I see his teeth. Those are white, straight teeth. That much I know.

Jongdae ruffles his hair, only now putting his book down. It’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. My mind as helpful as ever supplies:

 _Under the spreading chestnut tree_  
I sold you and you sold me  
There lie they, and here lie we  
Under the spreading chestnut tree.  
  


“Yes… It’s starting to get too cold for iced drinks,” he explains pointing to his drink. “I am not a fan of coffee but I just couldn’t take away the pleasure of hearing you.”

There is an unfamiliar intensity in his eyes, and I just look away, mindless of the smile that grows on my face. I notice how he said _hearing you_ instead of _seeing you_ and in an inexplicable way it makes me feel good.

I laugh to myself and shake my head. It’s surreal. And even I can tell that Jongdae seems to be satisfied. I gather because I laughed. Or is it too bold of an assumption?

“Listen,” he starts and I focus on him, “so… Do you come here often?”

I laugh. Of course, I laugh, but more because he wrinkles his nose to show me he is joking. I would have known that even without his sign because this line is too lame to be anything but a joke.

I have no idea what I’m doing, I really don’t – but I find myself cocking my head to a side.

“Often enough to be considered a usual,” I say and it catches him off guard. He snorts and looks down biting his lip. I guess it’s an unconscious thing, but it’s refreshing. And I can’t keep my eyes off his lips.

It scares me. It scares me that I am still being obsessive. I glance over to the counter. Nothing is happening and Mina? Mina shows me thumbs up. I need to get behind that counter right now.

“I… I have to go back,” I mumble, looking down at the table. _Not his lips. Not his lips._

“Oh, yes, of course,” he hurries to say. I smile minutely and start standing up. “I know that you are working now, but have you thought about the studio thing?”

I can feel the blood rushing to my head. I need to go back behind that counter. I’d do anything to be there.

“Yes,” I say quickly. It’s as short as “no” but more polite. I want to be polite. I don’t want Jongdae to be offended.

I stand up, but he does the same. No, please, _no._

“Does that mean you agree?” He asks with badly suppressed excitement.

“I don’t know yet,” I say already walking back. I do not think, I do not analyze. I need a break. Mina stares at me in disbelief as I rush past her into the back room.

I am definitely _not good_ with people.


End file.
